A Thousand Sleeps
by Piccolo is green
Summary: Exactly one thousand nights before the predicted arrival of the Androids, Bulma wonders if there is more she can do to stop the impending apocalypse. As the days count down, she devises a plan that will change the course of the future forever... AU/divergent fic set in the missing 3 years. Bulma/Vegeta.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.**

**A/N: **When I began writing I thought I'd be entering this into the We're Just Saiyan community's Disney Challenge, which was due sometime back in May. Instead I kept adding to this thing, and it became a multi-chapter fic rather than a one-shot.

This is an AU or 'divergent' version of the whole 'three year' Bulma/Vegeta get together. Basically it begins at the same point as most other 3 year stories, but as for the end... well, you'll have to wait to find out :)

Most of the story is already written, but I'm adding bits and pieces to it, with the final chapters needing the most work. My current estimate is that it will sit at around 20,000 words when complete. 'Sleeping Beauty' is the prompt that got me started with this. However, this story is _nothing_ like Disney, and is very much set in the DBZ world.

To make it clear to everyone, the number above each section of this story is the number of days before May 12th 767 – the date Mirai Trunks predicted the Androids would appear.

This story is rated M for sexual content and violence, though there isn't more than the odd curse word in this first chapter.

* * *

**A THOUSAND SLEEPS**

**Part One**

_**1000**_

Her finger slides across the foggy mirror, and in the lines that she traces her blue eyes stare back at her. Bulma stands there, naked, and cannot ignore the fear present on her face.

Part of her wishes the boy from the future had never come, though she knows his visit may have just changed the Earth's fate. But she's already counting down the days until the Androids appear, and it's driving her mad.

_1000._ The number in the glass is beginning to fade, the fog from her shower curling through the air to settle on the mirror. It doesn't make any difference; the number is still imprinted in her mind.

A thousand sleeps. It's August 15th, 764. There are exactly one thousand nights until the Androids arrive.

Her fingers swipe across the cool glass, blurring the number entirely. She glares back at her reflection, wondering if there is more she can do to change the future.

_**975**_

In the dead of night she wakes with a start, her heart racing in the aftermath of her dream. There's an all too familiar ache between her legs, and she pulls back the sheets, feeling sticky and unsatisfied. She lies there blinking into the darkness as her body cools down, listening to her pulse slow. The bed shifts under her as Yamcha rolls over in his sleep, pulling the blankets with him.

She looks at him, doing her best to make out his features in the dark. He's big and long and sleek and beautiful, and she loves him.

_But_ –

She can't help but feel that there's something missing in this relationship. Yamcha's not thereckless bad boy she found living in the desert all those years ago, and she's not the carefree teenager she used to be, either.

How greedy she is. She has all the money in the world, and it isn't enough. She wants more; more fame, more fortune, more adventure. She wants love and sex and _passion_.

She wants to live beyond the three year deadline they've all been given.

Sleep is too far away to reach now. She climbs out of bed slowly, careful not to wake the man beside her, and slips a robe over her shoulders.

"Nng… babe?" She pauses at the door. In the dark it looks as if Yamcha's face is floating amongst blankets and pillows. "Where you going?" he asks, his voice groggy.

"Just getting a drink." It's a lie, and she slips out, heading through the darkened halls to her lab instead. She finds the radar where she last left it, locked away in one of her desk draws. She switches it on and a familiar yellow dot appears in the screen, displaying the location of the nearest dragonball, only a hundred miles from here. She pulls up the location on her computer – it's hidden somewhere within a rural area – and she screws her nose up at the idea of walking through paddocks filled with _sheep_ and _cows _and their resulting dung.

Regardless of her distaste for the farming life, she blocks out next Thursday in her calendar, writing 'Meeting – Mr D. B.' just in case anyone asks.

She heads back to bed. Yamcha's skin is blazing under the sheets, and she cuddles close to him. Endless thoughts continue to race through her mind, and despite the comforting warmth beside her, she can't sleep.

_**969**_

She finds the four star ball in the midst of an abandoned orchard, and spends the afternoon laying about under a tree, gorging herself on wild plums and cherries. She's not usually the outdoorsy type, but this place is idyllic, and she enjoys the fresh air and birdsong around her. It is a relief after the tense atmosphere at home; there's been far too much posturing between Yamcha and Vegeta lately.

The dragonball sits in her lap, glowing softly. It's warm to the touch, and she caresses it fondly, reliving the memories of her childhood, back when her group of warrior friends actually included her in their plans. She can't help but be a little bit bitter about this; they all seem to talk about Namek as if she wasn't there. Hell; _she's_ the one that got them there in the first place! _And_ she managed to survive the whole time, unlike some.

It bothers her, the way the boys seem to leave her out, as if they've forgotten that it was all her doing that brought them together in the first place. It's this thought that spurs her on, that fuels her desire to do something active about the Android threat. Collecting the dragonballs is only the first step in her plan, and she won't let Son-kun or anyone else deter her.

Yes, she's determined to do it _her way_ this time. Let those boys see how smart and brave and capable she is, and a hot beauty to boot! She grins, closing her eyes and leaning back against the tree trunk behind her. It's relaxing here, listening to the sounds of nature around her. It reminds her of her old adventures with Son-kun…

She wakes with a start, glancing around apprehensively until she recalls what she's doing in the middle of the back country. The sun has disappeared behind dark clouds, and the orchard she sits in no longer looks warm and welcoming. In fact the place seems downright creepy.

The dragonball feels cold in her hands, and a chill runs down her spine. It's foolish, but she's suddenly overwhelmed by the ominous feeling that something bad is lurking on the horizon. Not one to hang around waiting for trouble, she quickly scrambles to her feet.

She shoves the icy dragonball in her backpack and slings the bag over her shoulder as the heavens open above, and by the time she's pulled her plane capsule out of her pocket she's already drenched. She wastes no time in getting into her plane and taking off, her small aircraft buffeted by heavy winds and pounding rain. She feels as if someone's watching her, and looks over her shoulder, though there's nothing there but the back of the small plane. It's ridiculous, and yet she can't shake the strange feeling. It follows her, along with the storm, all the way back to Capsule Corporation.

She runs across the lawn, pelted by the heavy rain. Once inside she heads straight for the kitchen, but freezes in the doorway. Vegeta's there, shirtless as usual and coated in a fine sheen of sweat, rummaging through the refrigerator. Though his muscled back, littered with old scars, is not an unpleasant sight, she pauses for a moment, considering whether dealing with Vegeta is worth a double shot latte.

In the end the latte wins out, and she sighs, resolutely ignoring the alien as she enters the room and begins programming the coffee machine. She drops her backpack on the floor at her feet, and imagines what she would say if Vegeta saw what she had hidden inside. But he ignores her presence, and the only sound in the room is the gurgle of the coffee maker.

She sips her drink at the counter, watching raindrops slide down the window. At some point she becomes aware of eyes on her; irritated, she frowns and turns to face Vegeta's stare.

"What?!" she snaps.

His eyes are cold, curious, calculating. He snorts suddenly, one eye twitching slightly. "You look like shit."

She knows it's true – the rain has left her hair a bedraggled mess, and her damp shirt clings to her skin. Her mascara's probably running, too. Still, she sniffs with offense, and tucks her damp curls behind her ear.

"Look who's talking," she replies, giving him the stink-eye. She picks up her bag and walks past him without another word.

_**901**_

She knows Vegeta's injuries are bad when she finds him sitting on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. She stands in the doorway to the lounge, watching him stare at nothing, until he turns his head and snaps "_What!_" so viciously that she actually jumps.

She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest to hide the fact that he startled her, and glares at him. "Jeez, you're such a grumpy butt!" she complains, moving angrily across the room. She settles on the couch opposite him and picks up the remote, throwing this purposefully at his head.

Unfortunately, his reflexes are too good, and he catches this with ease. "Turn it on," she tells him, nodding at the TV. When he gives her a blank stare, she adds "The green button."

The TV screen flashes to life, bringing up an old rom-com. She rolls her eyes; she is not in the mood for mushy romance stories, having just caught Yamcha checking out other women's asses while out with him. "Turn it to channel 61," she tells Vegeta. "It's a sports channel. Boxing is on tonight." She's not _that_ into sport, but she's seen enough martial arts tournaments to be vaguely interested, and for some odd reason she finds herself considering programmes that might actually interest Vegeta.

The channel doesn't change, and she peels her eyes away from the screen to find the Saiyan staring at the remote, a disgusted look on his face. "Channel 61," she repeats over the background noise of cheesy romance humour.

She receives a bone-chilling glare in response. He rises from the couch, and she doesn't miss the stiffness in his movements as he walks away, nor the shape of bandages underneath his t-shirt. He's hurt his ribs, then.

His reaction surprises her. Shaking her head in confusion – she'll never understand the man – she moves to the spot that Vegeta vacated, and picks up the remote. The chair is comfortably warm, and she tucks her legs under herself, settling down for a night of channel-surfing.

She wakes hours later, with a cramped back and drool running down her chin. She wipes at this with disgust, and picks up the remote from the carpet, where it must have fallen while she slept. Glancing down at the numbers on the controller, it suddenly occurs to her that Vegeta is an _alien_, and would have never come across Earth's alphabet and numeral system before.

"Of course," she mutters to herself, feeling like an idiot for not realizing sooner. She rises to her feet, processing this newfound knowledge as she heads for the kitchen.

_**900**_

The woman's scent is fresh as he steps into the bedroom, and he snarls, angered that she'd dare to set foot in his space. His eyes fall upon the single sheet of paper placed on the foot of his bed, and he stalks across the room, snatching at the offending object.

He studies the sheet, brown drawn tight in a scowl as momentary confusion gives way to understanding. It's a key; a translation of numerals from Standard into what he assumes is the Earth equivalent. The Standard numerals – zero to one hundred – line the page in a single column, the Earthling translations written by hand beside them.

"_Tch!_" He crushes the paper in his hands and throws it into the small waste receptacle in the corner of his room. He has no desire to learn anything about this mud-ball planet, and he certainly doesn't want any help from the woman.

He stalks into the bathroom, fuming over the woman's damn _perceptiveness_.

.

He wakes in the early hours of dawn and stretches, feeling the familiar ache in his muscles. His eyes land on the waste receptacle, an open box made of metal mesh, and the ball of scrunched paper that sits inside.

It takes a miniscule amount of ki to lift the paper. It floats towards him, and he catches it with one hand, carefully unfolding this. He doesn't know how the woman managed to figure out Standard, but she obviously has. He spends the next hour memorizing the numerals before him, committing them all to memory.

_**882**_

Her heart jumps somewhere in her throat as she runs out the door and catches sight of the spaceship, upended in smoking ruins on the lawn.

_Vegeta! No!_

Her legs are moving before she has any more time to think, and she's racing across the lawn, adrenaline coursing through her as she sprints for the wreckage. All she can think of is the man trapped under it all – _Kami, how can he still be alive?_

She stops before the rubble, sinking to her knees, eyes dancing to and fro as she searches for any sign of him. Yamcha's behind her, babbling something, but she doesn't pay him any attention.

"Where is he? _Vegeta?_"

It dawns on her, with sudden clarity, that she couldn't bear it if he were dead.

_**862**_

From her bedroom balcony she surveys the new spaceship. It sits in the same place as the last one, the grass surrounding it only just beginning to grow back after the explosion. Her father had almost completed the second ship when the first blew up, and had been quick to finish it while Vegeta lay broken in the infirmary.

She rolls her eyes as she thinks of the alien man. He's a fool, as stubborn as a mule, hell-bent on getting stronger than Goku. She can appreciate his determination, but his arrogance pisses her off. He often makes her want to slap him in the face, but she knows all she'll get from that is a broken hand. She's learnt from years around Goku that Saiyans are built like concrete.

As the sun sets Vegeta emerges from the new ship. He's shirtless, and his bronze skin catches the remaining sunlight. She bites her bottom lip as she watches him cross the yard in that swift walk that reminds her of a cat on the prowl.

She becomes aware of a presence behind her, and turns with a start. Yamcha stares at her, his face set in an unhappy frown.

"How long have you been here?" she asks, her voice a little too hard.

"Long enough," he answers, and she doesn't miss the accusation in his voice, nor the hurt in his eyes.

She pushes away the guilt, stepping around him and back into her bedroom. "You should have said something," she says, grabbing for her purse. "I've been waiting for you for half an hour!" She slips on her heels and doesn't turn around until she's outside her bedroom door. "Well come on! We're going to be late for our reservation!" She storms down the hall, leaving Yamcha to trail behind her.

* * *

**A/N: **I've assumed that Bulma would have been able to deduce the meaning of Standard numerals from Raditz' scouter. In those first few DBZ episodes she somehow manages to translate everything the scouter says into a language she understands, and I would say that she would have put this all on file somewhere.


	2. Chapter 2

******Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.**

**A/N:** Warning – coarse language and mature content (of a sexual nature) ahead.

* * *

**A THOUSAND SLEEPS**

**Part Two**

_**814**_

She glares up at Vegeta from the seat at her desk, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She wishes that she'd stood up the moment he set foot in her lab – instead she's now on the back foot, peering up at him as he stands over her.

"Do it." His brows are turned down in that perpetual frown, and in the harsh light of the lab his face looks severe, all hard angles and barely-restrained fury.

"What makes you think I have all of this time on my hands, Vegeta? I've got a company to help run and prototypes to develop. I don't have time to fix bots that should never have been broken in the first place."

"If you made them adequately the first time they wouldn't have bro – "

"If _you_ exercised more restraint," she cuts in before he can finish, "then they wouldn't be broken. They're metal. There not made to withstand blasts from crazy _aliens_ like you. There aren't any materials on this planet that could! But hey, here's a bright idea, _maybe_ if you stop blowing them up they will actually continue to work."

He glares down at her, his lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. He too has his arms crossed over that bare chest. She can't deny that he's a hunk, all rock hard abs and bulging muscle, sweat and plenty of testosterone. His proximity to her is more than a little unnerving.

"Fix them."

"Ugh! Fine," she hisses, just to get him out of her hair. He snorts and turns to leave, but something stops him.

He's staring down at the broken scouter that sits on her desk, the one she took from Raditz body. For the briefest moment he looks forlorn, lost, and her heart twists as she once again remembers that he is the last of his kind, and that for all of his monstrosities, he is the man who cried over the loss of his people, over the loss of himself. This Saiyan Prince is the same man who swept away his pride and begged Goku to avenge the death of his people.

"The glass shattered when you fought Goku," she explains. He jerks, jolted out of his reverie, and shoots her a dirty glare.

She watches his back as he storms out of her lab, and pities the Saiyan Prince.

_**777**_

The bed shifts underneath her – _again_ – and, losing her patience, she rolls onto her side and props herself up on one elbow. "What is wrong with you?" she asks, squinting at the lumpy dark form that is Yamcha in the dark. "You're squirming around like crazy. I'm trying to sleep!"

"Sorry. I'll stop." He sounds dejected, forlorn, and she sighs, flopping back down on the bed.

"No, s'okay," she sighs, rolling towards him. With his back facing her, it's easy to curl around his larger frame, and she buries her nose in the old shirt he's wearing, breathing in the familiar scent. His hand reaches back to pat her thigh, and she kisses his back, her movements gentle.

"What's wrong?"

He's silent, and she can tell he's holding his breath. He lets it all out in one big sigh and shifts again, rolling towards her. Her head lifts automatically as his arm slips under her neck, until she's safely cocooned in his arms. "The Androids," he whispers. "It's just shit, knowing what's coming."

"It's better than not knowing."

"I don't know," he replies, and she can hear the uncertainty in his voice. "Goku... Goku and Vegeta have a chance, but me..."

"You'll be fine." She squeezes him, pressing herself hard against him, whispering against his neck. "You'll be fine. We'll be fine." She opens her mouth and finds that she's on the brink of telling him the truth, so sorely tempted to tell him about the two dragonballs hidden in her lab. But the moment passes, and Yamcha's hand is sliding under her nightgown, over the curve of her ass, calloused fingers brushing the small of her back.

His lips crush against hers, stifling moans, and they roll together, him on top of her. Pants slip down and panties are tugged off her hips, fingers and toes pushing and pulling at garments until he slides between her open legs with a hiss. She digs her nails into his backside, arching towards him, until he fills her completely. They move slowly in a familiar rhythm, his breath panting in her ear.

"I don't wanna lose you, B," he whispers against her neck. "I don't wanna –"

"You won't!" she whispers back, silencing him with her lips. He kisses back with a fierce passion, a desperate need. He's a desperate man, a man who's seen death before. Kami, they're all desperate.

_**745**_

She follows the fresh bloodstains on the floor. They lead to the infirmary, where she finds Vegeta wrapping his wound, a 3-inch gash on his bicep. "How the hell...?" she asks, wondering what on Earth he's been doing to cause such a wound.

He resolutely ignores her and continues to bandage himself, the perpetual frown still plastered on his face. Only when he's done does he look up, treating her to a wonderfully unpleasant sneer.

She moves, blocking the doorway at the same time as he says "Get out of my way." She holds her head high against the full force of his glare, and prides herself on the fact that she doesn't even flinch when an angry growl rips out from between bared teeth.

"Move, Woman," he snarls.

"You should take a break," she protests, hands on hips. "You're going to kill yourself before the Androids even arrive. Just take a day off and let your body recuperate."

"Move."

"Take a day off." She doesn't know why she's so insistent. It's crazy, really, and the rational part of her brain reminds her that he's a homicidal maniac. The irrational side of her, however, notes the way the muscle in his jaw jumps in irritation, and the way his body – a perfect sculpture of bronze muscle, clad in a pair of spandex shorts and nothing else – tenses every time she opens her mouth. She pisses him off – she can see the burning anger in his eyes – and she gets a real kick out of it.

Breath hitches in her throat as she blinks and finds him standing mere inches from her. Damn his inhuman speed, it scares the shit out of her, and she watches as his nostrils flare minutely, almost as if he's smelling fear. He smirks, the corner of his mouth turning up in a devilish half-smile, and the only words that cross her mind are _cocky bastard_.

"Move, Woman." His voice is quiet now, but no less demanding. Her hands grip the doorframe on either side, and though she knows it's a losing battle, her pride won't let her surrender. She stares at him, taking in the solid wall of muscle, the dark eyes, and the flame of hair that gives the impression that he actually has a height advantage over her. This close, she can make out his dilated pupils against the backdrop of his black irises, and it reminds her all over again that him and Son-kun are the same, that they are aliens, that they are so different and yet so similar to each other, to her, to all humankind.

"Make me," she utters. Kami, it's like a scene out of one of the cheesy movies she loves to hate, but she stands tall, meeting his gaze, suddenly so oddly determined not to let him pass. He snorts, and for a moment she sees something dance in his midnight eyes.

His lips – did they always look that good? – part as he chuckles, a soft, rough sound that seems to wrap around her and squeeze, so that her breath comes fast and her pulse races. "Very well," he says, white teeth glinting as he flashes her another open-mouthed smirk.

"Wha – _aaahh!_" she screeches as she's tossed unceremoniously over his shoulder. "Put me down! _PUT ME DOWN!_" she cries as he carries her roughly down the hall, his fingers digging painfully into the back of her thigh. "You fucking _bastard!_" she hisses, the blood rushing to her head as she swings upside down, getting a much closer view of his ass than she'd ever imagined. The redness on her face only increases as she feels a rush of cold air against her backside and realises just how far her mini dress has ridden up. "Vegeta! Put me down _NOW!_" she bellows, her head pounding.

The air, the room, the world rushes around her, and she lands with a shriek into something soft. She blinks, her heart racing, and looks up from her place on the couch at Vegeta. He stares down at her, his expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed, and she blushes even more, tugging her skirt further down her thighs. "You... _dick!_"

He laughs outright at this, throwing his head back and practically barking. "I did warn you," he grins, sauntering away as if he owns the place. She glares after him, until he's disappeared around the corner. Only then does she relax back in the chair.

One hand placed firm over her pounding heart, she lays there, thinking thoughts about Vegeta and his blazing skin and rock hard abs that make her feel all the more guilty.

_**736**_

Yamcha's silent anger has her on edge, partly because she's never seen him this furious before. She watches him as he digs through the rubble of the second ship to have blown up on her lawn, noting his jerky movements and furious scowl. He catches her staring, and she turns away, busying herself with sorting out the pieces Yamcha's found. Anything salvageable is handed to the cleaning bots to be taken to her father's basement lab. Everything else will be going into a skip bin.

She takes a small part from Yamcha's hand, and offers him a placating smile. "Thanks for helping. It'd take a lot longer to sort through without a strong guy like you here."

"Are you going to build him another ship?" His stare is direct, mouth turned down in a disapproving frown.

"_I'm _not," she scoffs. "But Dad's already working on it as we speak."

"So you're just going to let him continue to blow your shit up." It's a statement, not a question, and Yamcha turns his back to her again, picking up another piece of twisted metal sheeting and throwing it to the side with too much force. The sound it makes as it lands on the ground is awful.

"Hey!" she yells. "Be careful! You almost hit mom's roses!"

Yamcha pauses mid swing, another hunk of metal in his arms. He drops this unceremoniously at his feet, shooting her a dirty glare. "You know what? _You_ should be careful."

"What?!"

"I've seen the way you look at Vegeta."

The statement is enough to both chill her bones and rile her up, and the little knot that's been sitting in her stomach all day suddenly feels huge. "_What?!_" she repeats, letting the parts in her hands fall to the ground.

"Seriously Bulma, he's a homicidal maniac, and you just invite him here to stay? And then you pander to his every need? How many millions do these ships cost, anyway? You could feed all the fucking homeless in the world with all the money you're pouring into him!"

"He's a _Saiyan!_" she screams back, feeling defensive because he's hit a nerve. "He's the best chance we have of surviving the Androids, you idiot! Goku's meant to die in another year or two, and _we _don't know if that heart medicine will work! Vegeta might be our only hope at saving the world! There'll be no fucking homeless to feed if the Androids kill everyone off!"

She pauses, her chest heaving, her throat feeling hoarse. She doesn't mention that she has another plan to avoid worldwide destruction at the hands of the Androids – that would mean that she _doesn't_ have an excuse for providing Vegeta with everything. Instead she chooses to fight on, because she can't stand to lose an argument.

"Don't get all pissy with me, _Yamcha_. Even _if_ I was looking at Vegeta, you have no right to say anything about it! I see the way you look at other women!"

"Oh come on B –"

"No, don't _'Oh, come on'_ me! You're just all for the double standards, huh? You can look at a pair of tits here and there, but I take one look at a shirtless guy and suddenly you're all suspicious? Grow some fucking balls!"

"Hey!"

"Besides, we need Vegeta! He and Goku are the only ones who have any chance in this fight anyway! I don't even know why you bother training!"

She knows instantly that she's gone too far. Not only has she stabbed him with her words, she's twisted the fucking knife, playing on his insecurities, and she feels terrible for it. "Yamcha," she says, her tone suddenly soft and apologetic, but it's too late. He stares at her with such a pained look on his face that she knows she's really burned him this time.

"You're such a bitch, Bulma."

The words sting, but this time she swallows her tongue. Yamcha turns away from her and grabs his jacket, left discarded over by the outdoor furniture. She watches him without another word, all the while wondering whether to apologise. In the end, her pride wins out. He called her a bitch, and she won't say sorry after that.

He doesn't look back as he flies off. She doesn't call out to him, doesn't tell him that she loves him. She's already decided that she'll wait for him to call, as she usually does after these spats.

Perhaps she is a bitch.

She stares at the rubble around her, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, and sighs, shaking her head.

She doesn't know how long it will take to make sense of all of this.

_**729**_

She steps into the small infirmary and closes the door softly behind her. Vegeta's asleep again, pumped full of drugs to keep him resting until the worst of his injuries are healed. The breathing mask that was so vital yesterday has now been removed, the only sign that he's made some improvements.

She stares at him from across the room, and considers how wrong it is to be here, watching him while he's so vulnerable. He certainly wouldn't appreciate her presence.

But she worries about him. And she knows that she's one of the only people in the universe that is actually concerned about his crazy ass.

She wonders what will happen after the Androids, if he survives. It's just another worry that ticks away in her mind. Will he try and fight Goku? Will he follow through on all of his threats? Sometimes – _most times_ – she has to remind herself of what he's done, and who he is. He's isn't just a man without a home or a real purpose. He's a cold blooded killing machine, and it hasn't been that long since his last offence.

He groans in his sleep, and she at his side in an instant, smoothing a hand over his bandaged forehead. His brows furrow as his eyes crack open to look up at her in a cloudy stare. "It's okay," she tells him quietly, her hand brushing through his thick hair. "Shh, it's okay. Go back to sleep."

She knows he isn't really awake, and yet he seems to take comfort in her words. His eyes drift close, dark lashes settling against his cheeks, and his head rolls to the side until his nose brushes her wrist and his breath feathers over her arm.

She pulls her hand away and stares at him. She knows it to be true, and yet she cannot comprehend the fact that he was born on another planet, that he is an _alien_. He looks different, yes, but it's an exotic look, a handsome look. In this moment he's just a man with a tragic past.

On impulse she leans down until her face hovers just over his. His eyes remain closed as she closes the gap, gently pressing her lips to his closed mouth. Everything is more than she expected – he smells better, his lips are softer. Injured as he is, he hasn't been able to shave for over a week, and his stubble scratches her lips as she pulls away.

She moves away quickly, careful to close the door silently behind her. She leans against the wall, fingers brushing over her mouth as she considers the many lines she just crossed.

.

He wakes in the night, and for a moment he cannot place himself. He hears the faint noise of traffic in the distance; sounds he recognizes even though the names for these elude him. His eyes search the room and his sense of danger dissipates. Suddenly he knows where he is. He is on Earth. He is safe.

He ponders this thought for a moment. It is disturbing, and only partially true. Kakarot is the only being strong enough to defeat him on this planet, and he is too much of a soft weakling to ever pose any real threat. But there is always danger; the upcoming battle with the Androids is proof of this.

Yes, the idea that the world around him is _safe_ is disturbing, a dangerous lie. He won't ever be fooled into complacency.

He sits up and looks at the room around him. He's in the infirmary, and as he pulls the various tubes from his veins he contemplates how he got here. He has only faint memories of training, of intense heat engulfing him, and of the woman calling his name.

The woman. Her scent is strong, fresh in this room. He brings a hand to his face and growls, angered to find a week's worth of stubble there. The lines between his brows deepen as he rubs his calloused fingers across his lips, recalling what must have been a fever-dream. The woman's lips had been soft and supple, her breath warm as it feathered over his face. She'd kissed him as he lay sleeping.

He sneers as his body betrays him, stirring to life over the remnants of this ridiculous dream. As if he ever _would_…

He snorts and pushes himself off the bed, the taste of a ghost woman on his tongue.

_**719**_

She hasn't heard from Yamcha since the day he flew off. It's a relief, in a way, though every time her cell rings her heart skips a beat. She's not afraid of speaking to him – it's what she'll say when she does see him that scares her.

Vegeta, on the other hand, seems to be a constant presence, despite his propensity to hole himself up in the new ship. The empty refrigerator in the morning is a daily reminder that he wakes early to train. The blood stains on the carpet are testament to his hard work. He is a machine, and like her mother, she finds herself appreciating this.

These thoughts are dangerous, and she knows it. It's why she's escaping for a few days, for once happy to attend a business meeting scheduled in the distant South City.

She catches a glimpse of Vegeta crossing the lawn as she heads out the door. She turns away from him and throws her capsule out ahead of her, her sleek new plane appearing in its place. She climbs in, avoiding the urge to turn around and check if he's watching her or not.

_**701**_

Yamcha sits across from her, staring at his feet. He hasn't brought flowers today, an ominous sign of what's to come. They sit in silence, until she can't stand it any longer, until she has to say it, has to get it over and _done_.

"You haven't contacted me in a _month_. A _month_, Yamcha." She's a horrible person. Even now, when she's the one doing this, she tries to shift the blame.

"Yeah, well neither have you."

"Exactly." She looks away, staring out the window, seeing nothing. "This always happens. We're good for a while, but it's never stable. It's never _right_. We piss each other off too much." It's the truth. She repeats this to herself. _It's the truth._

The silence is deafening. "Say something," she urges.

He shrugs, his mouth twisted into a bitter line. "What is there to say? You wanna end it? Fine. It's done. That's what, thirteen, fourteen years down the drain?" He gets up and pulls his jacket on.

"Don't be like that. We're still friends. You're welcome here –"

"Don't. Fuck, Bulma. Don't. I'm not welcome while that asshole's here. You better be careful –"

"Of _what?!_" she shrieks defensively. "Don't tell me what to do!"

"I'm _not!_" he yells, throwing his arms wide. "I'm leaving!"

"_FINE!_"

"_FINE!_"

She stares at his back as he storms down the hall. The room is silent. She sits, frozen.

Eventually she swallows back the lump in her throat, and wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. Smudges of black mascara stain her fingers.

"Fuck," she swears. There's guilt, and there's sadness, and there's shame. She still loves him – she'll always love him – but it's not enough. It never was – which was half of their problem to begin with – and it never will be.

Thirteen, fourteen years. She curls up in her chair, forehead pressed to her knees, and sobs. It fucking breaks her heart.

* * *

**A/N:** *Bites nails nervously* Yes, I may just be a Yamcha sympathizer, as well as a B/V lover. I'm trying to do them all justice here.


End file.
